


what rules the heart is not fear but love。

by aesterismo



Series: it goes like this (the minor fall, the major lift)。 [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, Manga Spoilers, Side Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 17:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesterismo/pseuds/aesterismo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are different, so different it should make them turn away from one another.  But when someday became more than abstraction, they would deem the laughter shared and the shy glances between them the start – and the end – to everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what rules the heart is not fear but love。

**Author's Note:**

> Major manga-related spoilers and projected series ending scenes ahead; proceed with caution.

They do not notice each other at all, at first.

 

* * *

 

Armin is quiet.

 

He does not speak often or out of turn

while the rest of the mess hall’s occupants chatter away, tucked between the spaces made

by Mikasa’s slender stature and Eren’s willowlike figure.

 

The blond sticks to their sides as if in the process of imprinting,

ever a step behind

but a clever thought ahead as well.

Jean is loud.

 

He stands alone and does not claim to want what lies beneath

the shadow of others’ glory nor what helps him stand out from the crowd

and so, self-fulfilling prophecies aside, he doesn’t.

 

The dialogues turned monologues with Mikasa

and terse banter turned fistfights with Eren

mean Armin must step between them to intervene, to mediate.

 

But even then they do not exchange words.

So it surprises Armin when,

while sitting in the mess hall alone for lunch one sweltering summer’s day,

 Jean drops his tray and himself in the seat beside him.

 

So it surprises Jean when,

to his mumbled “hope no one’s sitting here,”

Armin remarks, “Unless you count the wet gruel Connie dropped where you’re sitting, no one.”

 

So it surprises them both when

 

(after Jean all but shrieks as he leaps to his feet,

knees knocking into Armin’s shoulder,

the cross look he receives from the shorter teen followed by

 

an offering of Armin’s handkerchief for his sticky backside)  

 

they both stare at one another

before they both burst out _laughing_ ,

the sort of laughter that’s loud and senseless and free.

 

Jean crumples halfway on the floor in hysterics,

 

while a chuckling Armin rubs absently at his sore stomach for the next seven minutes

 

and they strike up a conversation about the wonders of resilient cafeteria food.

 

* * *

 

Strangers turned acquaintances,

fated to one day settle down for good, side by side,

as seamlessly as they had in that inexplicable moment of amity.

But not yet.

Not right there and then.

(When someday became more than abstraction,

they would deem the laughter shared and the shy glances between them

the start – and the end – to everything.)

 

* * *

 

Armin learns more than he expects just through observation.

 

Verbal tics, habitual motions, the slightest of quirks. 

He takes them all in, more to abate his inquisitive nature

than for any conscious resolution made. 

 

Though training drills and other worries keep them both busy,

lapses in conversation in subsequent weeks joined by growing pains and blistering palms,

they do inevitably cross paths.

 

Armin learns more of Jean by watching than he does speaking –

of the built-up worries that hide behind his open expressions

and the shows of selfish bravado that hide his innate sensitivity.

 

Jean learns more of Armin by speaking than he does watching –

of the delicate face which belies his steel-sharp tongue

and the quietness which belies his greater ambitions.

 

They are different, so different it should make them turn away from one another.

 

But every so often,

following Jean and Eren’s intersecting paths while they chase each other

halfway around the perimeter of the trainee cabin,

lobbing insults and trading off smites,

Armin catches Jean gazing face-forward at Mikasa

(as if Mikasa had no clue, no inkling, of his obvious infatuation,

as if there were any chance at all that the reticent girl would reciprocate,

as if Armin’s droll sympathies and counseling sessions never happened)

and catches Jean’s gaze with a soft smile to offer a mimed _good luck_.

 

But every so often,

following the trio who traveled all the way from the Shiganshina District

as they leave to escort Mikasa to the girls’ barracks,

sharing jokes and morning meeting plans,

Jean catches Armin peering over his shoulder at him

(as if he wants to say one last thing he’s forgotten until that instant,

as if the hand that reaches out to clutch at Eren’s sleeve is only a pretense,

as if Jean’s penchant for sheepish pleasantries were what softened those wide eyes)

and reclaims Armin’s attention by shouting a not-quite eager _see you around_.

 

* * *

 

They are far from the same,

nowhere near similar,

incurably different.

(But they both think back on those three years spent

in scattered memories, in opportunities in youth left asunder but not once forgotten –

and, when they are older, they’ll share those countless stories all the same.)

 

* * *

 

When not huddled among acquired blanket over blanket at winter’s start,

casting a shrinking shadow in the corner of his lower bunk,

Jean drifts in and out of consciousness to the sound of Marco’s voice.

 

Someone once said it best

(he can’t recall who, let alone where the topic originated):

if Reiner was everyone’s big brother, Marco was _anyone’s_ brother.

 

Though sometimes even that statement

carried little weight with the careful press

of fingertips fitting bandages and plaster casts

over abrasions and lacerations alike,

Marco’s charitable nature reminded Jean –

and most all the other trainees –

of a mother’s attentive touch.

 

From the offset,

Marco was a good friend.

A good guy.

 

Someone like Jean would see the best in Marco.

His kindness, his patience, his company.

A year older but far more put together than Jean could ever hope to be.

 

(Someone like Jean –

brash, pessimistic, spineless as he was

– didn’t deserve him.)

 

Someone like Jean would admire Marco, too.

His natural charisma, his charity, his chivalry.

A year wiser but far from arrogant about age and status where friendship was concerned.

 

(Someone like Jean –

boorish, pragmatic, fearful as he was

– didn’t deserve him.)

 

Someone like Jean grew attached to Marco, of course.

 

He stayed awake to talk with him,

chased away his quarrelsome qualms,

sat him down to advise him. 

 

Marco was the first – and the only – person Jean could recall

who bade his inner demons parting words with a constant reminder:

_every sunrise leads to a sunset, Jean, so live every day like it’s your last._

Someone like Jean –

who relied on him like he was family,

who respected him as a comrade,

who cared for him more than boys ought to feel for other older boys –

didn’t deserve him.

 

(From the day he realized

there was no shame in loving someone,

to the day the official announcement of

the trainees who had died

 _courageously, on the front lines, having served Humanity in the tireless fight against the Titans_ ,

Jean convinced himself it was true.)

 

* * *

 

When not buried among bookshelves upon bookshelves in the library,

dwindling leisure time and impending graduation aside,

Armin drifts through the corridors of the main cabin and breathes.

 

Someone once told him

(he thinks it may have been his grandfather, long dearly departed):

The human body is made up almost entirely of water.

 

Though to consider that much unsettles him,

he recalls the way blood too must course through the body

as running water given passage along estuaries and streams,

and it reminds Armin of his greatest wish about what lies beyond the Walls.

 

One day,

Armin dreams of seeing the “ocean.”

Wherever and however far.

 

A large expanse of nothing but saltwater.

Dyed a brilliant green-blue.

Perhaps a color like Eren’s eyes, steadfast and idealistic.

 

(A sight familiar as it is comforting –

and, then again, who’s to say the history books

are not written to offer false hope?)

 

A destination on age-stained maps.

Marred by consistent wear and tear.

Perhaps the discolored stains tell another tale all their own.

 

(A vision occurs to him then –

and, as fleeting as a silent exhale,

the seizing flash of _perhaps a trainee from 103 rd_ dispels itself.)

 

A place he would like to see himself someday.

Not the sole purpose behind why he fights, however.

Far from it, given all that he’s seen thus far.

 

(Losing a friend –

or escaping death’s bared canines by the skin of one’s teeth

– has a potent effect on any too-mortal soldier.)

 

Armin is no exception to this rule.

 

(None of them are, the smaller male learns,

although he had witnessed so many distraught expressions and hallway breakdowns

between today and in yesterday’s funeral services

that he knew over the shadow any shred of remaining doubt

his own eyes were, at this point, all but cried out.)

 

But just as he rounds the corner back to the barracks,

he finds Jean slumped alongside the nearby garrison wall

and he’s reminded

with a sudden stinging quake to his throat, a clench at the center of his chest

that his grandfather was right, that people really are comprised of eighty-percent water:

rushing, spilling forth, and willing to reshape to whatever containing force holds it steady.

 

Jean does not see him, at first.

When his floor-bound vacant stare lifts nearing a full minute of waiting,

Armin holds a silent hand out to him, intending on helping Jean stand.

 

He doesn’t expect the trembling hold to grasp everywhere but –

on his wrist, at the belts that create crosses at his waistline,

losing grip at his ankles and dropping to his sides in surrender.

 

He doesn’t expect the wavering vision that blurs Jean’s silhouette

to be from _his_ tears, making over-sensitized eyelids flutter shut as he drops to his knees,

cradles Jean in his shaking arms

while his fingers thread gentle through the taller boy’s hair

like he’s done far too many times for Eren years upon years ago –

rocked by the passenger boat’s measured swaying at the river currents’ flow,

fists’ beating desperate against the pillows in one of many fits of unrepressed rage,

solemn prayers sent to the collective gravestone raised in honor of nameless citizens lost –

as the heaving laments begin their slow transformation from _I’m so sorry_ to _I know_.

 

* * *

 

(And, indeed, he does know.

If only he didn’t, Armin muses with a certain derision

saved for the cobweb-shaped corners of his heart,

turning his gaze heavenward as he attempts to send one last litany to Marco:

_I’ll take care of him,_

_I’ll look after him in your stead,_

_I swear on whatever remains of this short life._ )

 

* * *

 

Jean recalls a time when he could keep from looking

just slightly left of center

when his gaze wanders from Mikasa.

 

The thing about Mikasa is that she always leaves people a little spellbound.

A little stunned.

Speculating why – and how – such an aura of intensity and unbridled strength

was granted to someone of what most deemed the weaker sex.

 

(Jean holds no speculations about who deserves the title of ‘weak.’)

 

Mikasa holds her head high

but Jean can’t hold his stare steady

any sooner than he can stop looking toward Armin.

 

These days,

everyone’s grown that much closer.

 

Through grief, through strife, the trainees became graduates to become soldiers.

In some cases, there were soldiers who went elsewhere.

Soldiers forced to stay under scrutiny until further notice.

Soldiers who dared to question authority,

who felt they served their countrymen more than enough.

 

At war with the uncertain situation they’ve landed themselves in,

presented with a choice,

Jean looks for Armin in the parting sea of people.

 

Commander Erwin’s speech was not meant to stir the sympathy left in their hearts.

It was not meant to rouse any lingering pride to their determination.

Jean knows that much from the moment he begins to talk,

knows the source of the dread that seizes him,

knows the Commander does not mince words for good reason.

 

Commander Erwin wants the bravest of brave,

gender and status notwithstanding,

to the future recruits to the Recon Corps to swear allegiance to their cause.

 

(Jean wants the capacity for fearlessness,

pride as a man be damned,

to be as resolute as Mikasa,

rooted in place as the other graduates disperse

until there are only familiar faces left.)

 

But then there’s Armin –

reserved, perceptive, quick-witted Armin –

whose figure in the row closest to the stage stands beside Mikasa

while the rest of 104th turns away from the ones who stay behind

whose small shoulders do not shudder,

whose fists do not unfurl,

when he turns toward Jean

the solemn day’s sunlight dappled by cloud cover highlighting his profile

and his ever so slight smile makes something catch in Jean’s throat

as he remembers.

He remembers stumbling out of the reception hall that day,

long before the funeral processions ended,

not anticipating anyone would follow after him,

not anticipating Armin, of all people, to find him.

 

He remembers struggling for oxygen,

with the other half of his (all that) remain(s of Marco’s memory)ing clarity,

while the arms that envelop him

like the ocean waves’ rhythmic pulse.

 

He remembers seeing blue,

something calming and comforting and real,

the life returned to him by those cool palms that gripped his back,

refusing to relinquish their hold,

 _we can stay here for as long as you need to recover your bearings_ as reassuring as

_if you ever want to talk, Jean, you know where to find me._

 

“So,” begins Jean, low enough that Reiner at his right does not start

and audible enough that it counteracts the din of escalating indecision within,

“guess we’re stuck, huh?”

 

“From the looks of it,” Armin murmurs,

smile disappearing only after Commander Erwin addresses the ones who stayed,

 “we’re stuck, alright.  Stuck together.”

 

* * *

 

Armin isn’t wrong,

they’ll discover in the month of training to follow as new scouts under Captain Levi,

but even Jean couldn’t have predicted how right Armin was.

 

* * *

 

The Scouting Legion is a curious place full of curious people.

 

Among so many people Armin knows,

among so many people Armin _doesn’t_ ,

his head spins at the new revelations and the new training regiments,

the new names and faces that keep him distracted

and dissolve his doubts enough to remain focused on learning the truth –

to find out if the “Recon Corps” were indeed using Eren as a bargaining chip and why.

 

Eren,

who tucks him under his arm

and ruffles his hair

and chats with him over the cafeteria tables,

seems different to Armin than before.

 

He wonders if this is what they call ‘growing apart.’

 

But then Armin thinks

_no, it’s because_

_we were forced to grow up too fast, too soon_ –

and the fear abates somewhat as he alternates between

watching Mikasa watch over Eren more closely

and spending more time with Jean.

 

In retrospect,

the latter happens before he notices the change

is him.

 

Jean’s company becomes second nature.

Less withdrawn now,

less prone to picking fights with Eren

(though he certainly seems intent on always finishing them),

Armin discovers he shares more than a bunk bed with his new roommate.

Learning about history of the world as it was before the Walls were erected,

the physiology behind the Titans,

the outer edges of the training grounds to the outskirts of town –

all of it interests Jean as much as it does Armin

and they spend at least one night on any given week

curled up by lantern light in Armin’s bottom bunk

reading until dawn begins to peek through the overhead windows of the barracks.

 

In retrospect,

the reason why he isn’t lonely at all these days

is obvious.

 

But it takes a happenstance to remind him,

a sight he stumbles upon by chance

when Hanji asks him to pass along a stack of report files to the Captain

who, according to Officer Petra, left for the Commander’s office several minutes ago –

and, much later, Armin will wonder

(once the discordant beat of several skittish rabbit heartbeats

and a shuffle march silent past the door left slightly ajar fade)

whether some accidents were not really accidents at all.

 

Accidents like Levi, leaving his perch on the older one’s desk for Erwin’s lap,

baring the ghost of a smile that, strange and unfamiliar as it is, makes his eyes flash with indulgence

as he leans forward in the Commander’s open arms and kisses him.

 

Accidents like Erwin, letting his hands rest along the slight dip of Levi’s spine,

baring the same quiet focus in front of the scouts when addressing them, except gentler now, almost tender,

easing the Captain closer with a subdued laugh and kisses him back.

 

Accidents that aren’t accidents at all,

not when both are still dressed,

still sitting amidst all their forgotten paperwork,

still only after the short time spent with each other ends –

as most things non-incidental are naught to –

with whispers more like exhalations

with reluctance that lingers with the parting press of Erwin’s lips to the back of Levi’s palm

with an exchange faint but audible that cycles from _later tonight_ to _if i’m not back by nightfall find me here_.

 

(It’s the intimacy of what he witnesses,

actions built upon numerous unspoken

implicit history and **trust** ,

that makes Armin at last turn away,

placing the fee for his time at Commander Erwin’s office doorstep.)

 

* * *

 

Armin wonders about many things

from that day on,

for the days to follow,

for the rest of his days as a soldier –

but he no longer wonders whether their Captain is as straight-laced or stoic as he seems

because he knows the truth behind such well-guarded secrets,

knows some secrets are weakness but others are a form of strength,

the kind which transcends found family, born brotherhood, faithful friendship,

the kind which Armin cannot imagine the magnitude of

any sooner than he can put a name to the flickering mass of unfurling paper above his diaphragm

every time Jean rests his chin on his shoulder

or tugs him by the wrist to join him in the cafeteria

or pulls him over from his bunk for a roughhousing session and a sound hair-ruffling

as if they know each other better than those who have for years and years before this

(as if they intend to get to know each other more for years and years to come).

 

* * *

 

There are those who cannot be trusted,

Jean discovers in the month to follow,

and then there’s Armin.

 

He knows little of the other teen’s past

(never asked, never thought the quieter one would divulge)

and even less about their future.

As comrades, as companions, as people cast in roles they did not expect to play.

The sheep led by shepherds not of this world,

the cattle herded by conspiratorial cowhands,

the naïve with no foresight to perceive their own naivety.

 

When they embark on that expedition

displaced from their place on horseback,

Jean follows orders out of obligation

(even when he fears for the worst for all of them)

while Armin,

(for all his misgivings on the execution of this mission)

maps out a plan that should resound cries of protest

but instead earns unswerving assent

of a survival strategy, though undeniably foolish,

this astute boy unearthed from the alcoves of his adept mind.

 

This astute boy,

wise beyond his years,

willing to combat his own fears for the sake of others,

world-weary without denying the rewards of idealism,

was someone Jean admired more than he dared to admit.

 

“If we divert the Female Titan’s attention by keeping our hoods up,”

Armin instructs the scouts from his place in the grass as Jean tucks bandages underneath blonde bangs,

“we should be able to lure it to a safer locale.”

 

“We’ll face a great amount of danger but waiting for the Legion to find us is just as dangerous,”

Armin reasons at the skepticism Eren responds with as he tempers the unkempt locks of Jean’s wig,

“so we might as well make it a dangerous spectacle for all of the district to judge themselves.”

 

“We did what we could with the limited options dealt to us,”

Armin tells him, any levity marred by the wry curl of his mouth,

“but without you, Jean, we wouldn’t have been able to make this mission work.”

 

( _“You’d make a great leader someday, Jean.”_ )

 

“Thanks,” he murmurs into the damp crown of Armin’s hair pushed over the bandages

while the smaller boy dozes off on his shoulder on their ride back to the Walls,

the stolen breaths that rush after his stilted pulse no less frightening

than realizing _knowing the weakness that guides human hearts_

is more than just a principle Marco taught him to live by,

a welcome warmth that shields his many vulnerabilities,

a protective streak borne out of his need for reciprocation,

wanting no longer to not be afraid but to clasp that grounding fear tight and never let it go.

 

* * *

_I’m not afraid,_

Jean told his fellow trainees once,

_of anything I can’t use my five senses to track down._

 

_I’m feeling more like myself,_

Jean told his fellow trainees turned graduates when they ask how he’s been _._

_but having someone to talk to always helps._

 

( _Because I trust him,_

Commander Kirschstein tells the troops who question his authority,

who wonder why he recommended Tactician Arlet for promotion to his current rank,

  _always have, always will._ )

 

* * *

 

If Mikasa and Eren are Armin’s family,

the place where his hopes and dreams remain,

Jean is the home to where his heart always returns.

 

When his night visions delve into the realm of wishful thinking,

Armin finds himself standing atop a cliff that overlooks the shoreside,

inhales to the restless beat of _we’re here, we made it, we’ve won_ ,

exhales to the nearness of arms that weave around his waist and enfold him,

to the taller boy’s rising laughter rumbling like distant thunder long left behind,

to the effortless way he can lean back just before waking to catch Jean’s free and easy grin with his mouth.

 

He recalls times, plenty of them, when he’s pictured the others as lovers.

Eren, impetuous but passionate, conversant and committed.

Reiner, brusque but sincere, (once) reliable and vigilant.

Annie, stoic but dedicated, fatalist and stalwart.

 

Christa as well, though not for the same reasons she was beloved and held to high regard.

 

“I’m sure it’s an odd question to ask out of the blue,” she asks while they wait on the cafeteria line,

trays waiting to be filled and the opportunity to discuss a matter weighing down the lines of pretense,

“but why do you think human beings were given the capacity for love?”

 

“I think…we’re human.  So we try to seek out whatever makes us feel safe,”

Armin answers, stalling at the final word and pausing to reflect in silence,

“and the idea of love offers people security when they’re afraid.”

 

“I suppose the same people would say what rules the heart isn’t fear,” chuckles Christa,

tracing the rim of her mug with the flat of her thumb as her level gaze returns Armin’s inquisitive stare,

“but love.”

 

Armin thinks the others have her all wrong.

 

Christa is not a girl who wants to be revered,

put on a pedestal for her pretty face,

valued for the sides of her the others are privy to –

she’s keen, far from delicate, and she _knows_ things,

notices more than Armin could ever hope to observe.

 

Historia, as Armin will soon learn to call her

after the reports are written and they’ve nurtured each other’s losses

in exchanges of fatigued smiles and resolved nods,

is more similar to him than he ever realized.

 

She knows, Armin discovers,

knows all too well the struggles that come with hiding

beneath façades of benevolence and introversion,

beneath the different smiles reserved for different people,

beneath the thin veneer of affection that melds into attraction and adoration.

 

She knows, he discovers, that the instant she confides in Armin –

who is not taken aback by the words but by their intensity –

she’s found a friend as well as a supporter

in their current rescue operation and everything else,

that the objections from Hanji suggesting to stay behind and rest fall on deaf ears because

_I want answers, from Reiner and Bertholdt as much as Mikasa and Armin;_

_I’ve been protected and treated like something fragile for long enough;_

_it’s about high time I prove my worth as one of the top ten graduates of 104 th and bring Ymir and Eren back safe_

she’s found someone to be strong for, to stand that much taller for, as much as Armin did.

 

She must have known, Armin discovers –

must have saw the signs sooner than he ever did,

chose her love above fear as her impetus,

as her reason to carry on fighting,

as what Armin could only dream of as winding roads not taken.

 

* * *

 

And then again, Armin ponders,

a frightful hush to the barracks that mirrors how unusually quiet Jean is tonight,

feigning sleep to let his thoughts fill the space between his prone form and Jean in the adjacent bunk

( _setting out at sunrise—_

_Commander’s really trying everyone’s patience—_

_we’re all wide awake now, more than aware of how cruel the world is, given all that’s happened—_ ),

he wonders if Jean knew,

knew from the hesitant shift of his posture at the barest touch to his nape

(fingertips massaging the sparse hair and the exposed skin,

cool, gentle, near cautious,

like treading on a wet stone trail knowing full well what’s at stake),

knew it was far from the first time he let this happened,

far from the last time they’ll pretend not to notice the kindling wound tight pending ignition.

 

But it’s the first time he flips onto his side in turn,

reaches out to Jean,

rests his hand over the shape of his cheek

before Armin pinches him, frowning in the dark, stage-whispers a reproachful _you should get some sleep_

to which Jean huffs a reprimanding _look who’s talking_

as a jab to his side joins Jean’s admonishment.

It’s the first time since their evening routine that Armin dares

to twist-crawl into Jean’s bed

and burrow under a sputtering Jean’s covers

until they’re so close there’s no room for argument,

let alone for any fear to find shelter past the jagged fringe of Jean’s hair,

not grown in enough to obscure his furrowed brow

or stomp out the rest of Armin’s expectations.

 

It’s the first time Jean draws him into a loose one-armed hug,

hesitant motion changing into a much firmer embrace as soon as Armin nestles his way into his arms,

pressed until his cheek rests flat between the taller boy’s clavicles as he peers up at Jean

(eyes screwed shut, nostrils flaring, obviously flustered, but

_“Are you still awake, or—”_

_“Armin, in the name of all things unrelated to Titan Shifters or Recon Corp operations,_

_I’m saying this because I know you won’t listen otherwise but…shut up.  Go. To. Sleep.”_ )

watching him until he’s shaking with mirth, **shaking** ,

feeling overwrought by all that’s happened

and all that hangs in the balance of tomorrow’s rescue excursion

until the silent giggles subside at Jean squeezing his face and shushing him

with a smile strange and soft and slides the blanket over both their huddled forms

as they give into exhaustion and drift off together.

 

* * *

 

Strange, Jean thinks,

as the start of sunrise filters through the boys’ barracks,

how the fear felt smothers itself,

replaced by clarity that does not startle him,

does not turn his internalized doubts against him,

because he did know –

from the moment the quiet change began within him

that someone as unlike him as Armin

would be the one to hold him when he needed reassurance back then

and be the one he wants to keep all that much closer at morning’s light

and every night to follow.

 

* * *

 

The thing about losing battles is the revelation,

in the settling dust of the aftermath,

that the winners and the losers deserved better. 

 

Jean watches them,

strangely small among the wreckage of woods and crumbled citadels,

gravel-flecked and red-splotched flesh wounds

the rising steam doing little to soothe the fright

(he recognizes it, far too much like nostalgia,

repressed regrets unforgotten all the same)

bright in Bertholdt’s eyes as he rocks Reiner’s unmoving form back and forth,

no visible pain other than the kind which does not ache in blood or bone

but from the frantic sinking sensation Jean knows well,

of nightmares running through reality parallels,

of tossing and turning over lost chances and last wishes,

of the desperation rife to

( _wake up_

_quit fooling around_

_open your eyes already_

_we were going to make it past the mountains_

_and live an honest life after all this was over,_

_live **together** , _

_remember, you promised—_ )

that reverts into panic-stricken laughter sounding more like lamentation,

except it **is** , Jean finds as he and Armin and Christa and Ymir stand over them,

Commander Erwin and Eren – supported by Mikasa – flanked at their immediate left and right,

and while he feels nothing but pity for the Titan Shifters now

(they betrayed them,

pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes including themselves,

fooled into thinking humankind needed another obstacle to overcome,

needed a purification that only an inhuman force could provide,

to exact an order from a vigilante group

who could be cornered sooner, if not later, if they just had a name—

a single name to shed stronger light on whatever truths were left to uncover),

Jean does feel remorse, if nothing else,

for how the punctuated sobs and shamed howls

bring about a single thought,

a single strand of sympathy:

 _I once lost someone to my own vanity and ego too_ ,

disclosure that keeps him silent when the Commander asks in a round of suggestions

what they believe the pair of judases deserve for their crimes.

 

(What Jean wants to say is _the gallows_

but he can’t bring himself to the declaration,

not while Bertholdt clings to Reiner like his last heavy rope keeping him from tipping off the precipice

not while there’s a visible tremble to Armin’s shoulders as he reasons away Eren’s lunge after a second wind,

not while he remembers Marco’s policy to _forgive but never forget_.)

 

Armin watches them,

strangely numb as he rationalizes how the government will likely put them under high-security surveillance ,

lifelong prison sentence at least,

the guillotine at most,

(he recognizes, imagines, how they might choose the easy way out, in the end,

no different than anyone else put in the same position)

dark irony to the rest of their lives being determined by human minds gathered in counsel undeniable,

no humor to be found with the sort of unrepentant choice about to be exacted

as Armin and the Captain take tally of votes

by virtue of their dwindling lack of time,

by a show of hands raised,

by a faith in shared strategies divulged during midnight meetings and extensive debate over a square table

( _the reports say a certain scout named Christa Renz  was responsible for—_

_I do believe her name is Historia Reiss, sir—_

_Inventing a scheme to oust a couple of spies among the army ranks, what a woman—_

_Regardless of her gender, sir,_

_it was a joint effort on the part of all the scouts_

_who were mentioned and lauded in the report file,_

_all of whom deserve credit for their success in the retrieval of Eren Jaeger and Ymir Wagner_

_and appropriate compensation for their roles in this crucial operation_ )

that does not conclude any sooner than Armin’s festering unease

which all the others notice by the time they’ve finally returned to the barracks,

bunks filled and bunks empty but huddled and bunched up close

as they plan

(for their next attack,

for their own rebellion against the “state dogs who’d wait three weeks instead of investigating now,”

because whatever comes next means they have to be ready,

they have to be faster,

braver,

more collective and less divided next time)

while Armin decides, if nothing else,

the solemn nods and steeled solutions

can bring about change,

a world with the propensity for kindness and cruelness:

a world they can bring about, _with our individual strengths as the key,_

because, differences aside, it’s a world Armin wants to be part of in its conception,

wants to grant for the sake of  those like Reiner and Bertholdt and Annie driven to such lengths to reshape it.

 

(What Armin wants is not the ability to _someday become Captain with brains like that_

but become the sort of person who deserves to stand in front of those he calls allies,  friends, family,

and be proud to hold his head high and shout from the highest of cragged peaks that he’s _alive_ ,

alive to make those whose deaths were deemed in vain proud of him as well.)

 

* * *

 

They’ve lost more than enough,

Armin and Jean both know,

the last to let sleep overtake them of the pile of snorting and snickering teenagers

strewn about the pillow forts and cold floors,

but lessons learned emerge from the rubble of knowledge relearned

and what they gain in the process

is not weakness at all

but a strength which carries them over battlefields internal and external

to the steady thrum of hearts in tandem to the whisper –

close but not close enough,

not to the point where foreheads bumped together mean closing the distance;

 _not yet_ , they both think without meaning to think the same, _not tonight_ –

of one of many _goodnight_ s to come.

 

* * *

 

The end does not come as Jean expects it.

 

The end is not the end at all, in fact,

but three interconnected events

that yield more many new beginnings.

 

One:

all court proceedings to decide

the futures of Bertholdt Fubar and Reiner Braun

were cancelled abruptly when, at winter’s dawn,

the prison guards reported to the Legion Headquarters,

the Military Police’s official quarters,

and the Stationary Guard still posted outside the Garrison

that the Titan Shifters had, apparently,

“disappeared without a trace.”

 

A note, hours later, was found protruding from

the doorframe’s edge of the boys’ barracks

with no traces of any further forced entry to be found:

_Once the dust has settled_

_and a greater enemy appears to Humanity,_

_we’ll return to the Walls again—_

_not as Titans_

_or Warriors_

_but as Soldiers._

 

(Attached to Bertholdt’s scrawled promise

was a written confession

no doubt by Reiner, based on the clearer print and penmanship,

designated as “a living will”

to be presented to the courts

or to whomever the deigned parties to meet and discuss such matters would be

“when the time comes.”)

 

Two:

that’s precisely how many days

following Reiner and Bertholdt’s disappearance

it takes for Captain Levi

to turn in a report on the whereabouts of said Titan Shifters.

 

“We need more than this to build a case,”

the Captain announces,

pacing about with more verve and briskness than ever

since his leg at last healed,

pointed nods in turn toward Ymir on crutches standing by Historia

and the plaster-wrapped Eren squeezed between Armin and Mikasa,

“and a hell of a lot more information than what I got out of Pastor Nick

to build a proper testimony.

But it’s a start.”

 

It’s a start,

Armin thinks,

glad when his reassurance mirrors

the roused reactions from the other scouts

who offer suggestion after suggestion

in hopes of pitching forth plans for some form of an upheaval

that would appeal to the insurgent Captain.

 

A start,

Armin thinks,

that makes him glad to know the wearisome battles ahead are new chapters

in a book yet to be shut with its spine sticking out on an library aisle shelf,

the kind of history far more based in Humanity’s struggles

than the testaments of what the Old World was like

before the Titans pushed them to build the Walls,

the kind of history of which would be

the very first of many mysteries to be investigated

in the weeks to come.

 

A start,

Armin thinks,

that leaves him dazed when he feels the playful nudge of Eren’s arm

– the one not wrapped in a sling, at least –

and the quiet hum of approval from Mikasa when their superior officer also announces

the formation of a new task force,

a squad headed by none other than

“a scout selected to lead it

by the Commander himself after seeing

what kind of harebrained – but damn effective – tactics you brats threw together

to make miracles happen.”

 

(“Is that your words we’re hearing, Captain, or Commander Erwin’s?”

“I passed the message on, so I’ve got the right to change up the wording a little bit.

And here’s another message from me to you: shut up, Hanji, and let the kid take it for what it is.”)

 

It takes three

times

hearing it repeated

from everyone else around him

to believe _this is really happening_ as Captain Levi rattles off a list of the other candidates’ names,

visibly trying to keep his lips from twisting into a crooked sort-of smile,

all the applause and the congratulatory words and enthused pats to Armin’s back and shoulders and head

meaning just as much as the brief thump of Jean’s forehead

before he wraps both arms around the smaller boy’s waist

and lifts him up to the rising cheers of all the others,

spinning him around so many times Armin stops counting,

chooses to just hold on tight,

holding onto the warm whispers that make it that much easier

( _of course you deserve it, you do—_

_don’t start saying you don’t—_

_and don’t start_ _crying, you dumbass, you’re gonna make **me** cry, dammit—_ )

to leave fear on the ground below

and soar, instead, with the newly granted wings on his heart

with eyes wide open.

 

* * *

 

 They do not expect,

years later, long after this stroke of good fortune

leads them down a path of advancement and slow-crawling discoveries,

that Squad Leader Armin Arlet and Squad Co-Leader Jean Kirschstein

will someday lead the entire Scouting Legion

nor will the details as to why

be divulged until they’ve long escaped the obligations placed upon them

and the Walls which caged them in for so long—

but that story, among others, will be told someday

as fondly as the last of their tales to be disclosed

to those they once trusted

and to those they trusted,

and until the day they (dearly beloved, then and now) at last depart.

 

* * *

 

Jean is quiet.

 

He does not speak out of turn, or any word, for that matter,

while Armin speaks to him in confidence about what had been troubling him as of late,

wanting an opinion on what to do about _this feeling I’ve been struggling with_ from _someone he trusts_.

 

“You told me once,”

Jean casts another stone to skip from the lakeside’s edge to the full moon’s reflection farther out,

“you could trust me about as far as you could throw me.”

 

 Armin is loud, when he laughs.

 

He shifts from his sitting position, cross-legged in the dirt

in this hidden enclave past Legion HQ and the training grounds

far enough from the barracks so that sneaking out this far was almost too easy.

 

“I could throw you pretty far, too, if I wanted to.”

Armin teases as he leans against the other boy’s shoulder.

“And I do trust you.  Friends are supposed to have the utmost trust in each other, after all.”

 

But even when the timing is perfect,

even when the triggered spark sets the fire alight in their joined gazes,

 they can’t find the courage to say those words.

 

So it surprises Armin when,

when he’s about to stand and brush off his knees of grass clippings that brisk summer’s eve

Jean grabs hold of his arm to pull him back down beside him.

 

So it surprises Jean when,

to Armin’s flustered “we should really head back—”

Jean shoots back firmly, “If you don’t want to talk to me on our way back after this

– or ever again –

then I’d totally be okay with that.”

 

So it surprises them both when

 

(after Jean pinches the side of Armin’s face,

eliciting an offended squeak from the blond

when he pulls them forward until their noses bump, 

the muted sigh of _Jean_ a soft shudder hovering about the open air)   

 

they both stare at one another

no traces of humor to be found,

not when the pressure palpable puts their rushing pulses at odds.

 

Jean tilts his chin forward,

cradles Armin’s face in his hands,

watches nebulas collide and reform,

aquamarine and silver linings amidst a sea of gold,

as he fits their mouths together –

tense, tentative,

telling of how much, how _long_

he’s craved this quiet boy,

strong and sharp and a saving grace in human form,

keeping him grounded when he needs the reminder that no one is infallible

and keeping his hopes up when he needs a reason not to give up fighting.

 

Armin slots their mouths back together

prevents Jean from turning away and running off,

watches the impatient glimmer of hope reappear,

sea foam to rising whitecaps to a near exhilarated smile,

one that the blond captures

from lips to fumbling fingertips to the corner of his mind

thinking **this** had been why he brought it up then,

the hypothetical situation where he didn’t know

 _how to tell a friend I care for them far more than friends should_ ,

knowing Jean well enough to expect the reaction received,

wanting this stubborn and ingenuous boy all for himself.

 

* * *

 

And when they break apart,

only then does the laughter return,

reborn underneath

the ceiling of stars

and the aftermath arriving at a simple question –

_Was it me?_

– to depart at the utterance, at the affirmation, found in a single word:

 _Yes_.

 

* * *

 

(“You kissed me first,”

Jean will insist years later,

after they’ve grown taller

and lankier

and bolder still,

“remember?”

 

“I know,”

Armin will chuckle,

allowing the palms resting at the start of his spine

to slip beneath the covers laid over bare hips,

“and how could I possibly forget?”)


End file.
